Catch Me, Sweetheart
by wickerpetal
Summary: Matthias Kohler is always falling. Most of the time there's nobody there to help him back up; this time, he may not even hit the ground. DenNor ft. Nerd!Denmark and Punk!Norway
1. Chapter 1

For the most part, evening was a pleasant time for Matthias. He would spend the orange hours with his back against an oak tree in the city's central gardens, an assembly of textbooks and folders sprawled out around him and no music save for the chirps and whistles of songbirds in the boughs above him. It was the light that he enjoyed, too; the central gardens covered an unsheltered hilltop that was basked in a russet glow at every sunset, and even when it wasn't, Matthias found stormy greys to be oddly peaceful and refreshing.

His last class of the day had ended at five, and within a quarter of an hour he had hauled his bike up the path to the gardens and set it down against the tree next to him. The wind was vicious—weather reports on the radio that morning had forewarned a violent rainstorm. Yet he did not care. Each day he made sure to laminate his note sheets between classes so he could study even in downpours, and each day he would endure the mockery of his friends who would, on occasion, snatch his papers or glasses and wave them just out of his reach as if he were a playful puppy. Sometimes those memories rose up in him when he was isolated in the gardens and he would laugh, for despite their estrangement he enjoyed the company of his odd-humoured friends, and cared little when they stole away his things or laughed at his ever-so-slight stutter.

That had happened during their first class this morning, and when he settled down amongst the damp tree roots, he wiped the drizzle from his hair and laughed.

Just the same as always.

As per usual he had not bothered with covering the already-sodden ground with a coat—he hadn't even deigned to wear one earlier on—since when he got home nobody would complain or even really care that he'd spoiled his trousers with streaks of slick mud. He noticed that he seemed to do most things alone, now that he had the chance to reflect upon it. Most of the time his friends would be busy with their own clubs or other, better friends, and he would be left alone to nibble cinnamon pastries in the library with a stack of books next to him.

Oh, how he loved that library! An entire corner was packed with weighted, hardback copies of the great classics; Kierkegaard's philosophy papers, Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, the collective life works of Tolstoy and even the proses of the old American crime writers like Chandler and Hammet. He had long ago worked his way through Shakespeare's plays and sonnets and even memorised Andersen's fairy tales as a child.

In all honesty, he had finished all of his homework for the day at his lunch hour. Now it was an anthology of crime works from the old American _Black Mask_ magazine that he was buried in, working his way through every line with such profound excitement and interest that he did not notice that the storm was gathering, and only when a deluge of water flecked his book's yellowed pages with heavy grey stains did he notice how late it had become.

And he panicked.

His watch had frozen two days ago and for the evenings since then he had relied on the position of the sun for the time; a sun that was now choked out by a thick fog of black clouds. In a dazed rush he haphazardly stuffed the immense anthology back into his rucksack and made a dash towards the steep stairway down the hill to the streets. Twice on his way he skidded on the slick mud and crashed face-first into the ground; a high tolerance for pain stopped him from yelling at the sharp sting in his cheeks each time. He would be bruised all over by the next dawn.

With the same carelessness he almost leapt down the staircase, his hand hovering over the shining metal rail for guidance more than steadiness against the ravaging winds. Good lord, how late was it?

What he didn't see through the mist gathering on his glasses was a tin drink can that someone had dropped on the stairs, blown up against the back of the step by the wind rather than down and out of his way. What he didn't see was the pool of cola and rainwater that surrounded it, and the bend in the rails on the step above it that his hand was whisking over, and the complete obvious lack of people out in the storm.

What he didn't see was his foot landing on the can – he only felt the sickening surge of horror and adrenaline as he lost balance and went flying forwards down the staircase.

His eyelids snapped shut. He screamed onto a wind that whipped his voice away.

And braced for the impact.

And it never came.

The chain of movements was too swift for him to register; only a weathered passer-by would have seen, and they would have passed it off as a weariness-induced hallucination.

But what his buzzing mind puzzled together as it recovered from the myriad of shock and utter terror was that he had not crashed into the stone steps and broken every valuable bone in his body. Instead he vaguely registered the soft, familiar firmness of tree bark against his back, and a pool of shadows blotting his vision with an intangible ink. Over the course of the long minute it took for his thoughts to assemble themselves that inky blackness became distilled and parted, and a blur of shapes took their place. He could barely make out the silver line of the rail and the mellow green of the grass spread across the hill, and in his central line of sight a blurred figure that seemed to hover, watching—no, _observing_ —him.

To his later frustration he could not find the strength in his trembling limbs to move or speak as the figure slipped off a coat or jacket of some kind and laid it down over his soaked body. Only then, when he was wrapped in the heavy coat's warmth, did he realise how desperately cold he had been.

And it was only then, when the figure turned and began walking down the steps away from him, that he could make out a partly shaven head and a black Christian cross seemingly tattooed onto his now-bare left arm.

Before he could move, the figure was gone.

And, trapped in an unrelenting haze of lingering fear and confusion and bone-biting cold, Matthias gave in to exhaustion and made himself as small as he could beneath the stranger's coat, too shaken and shattered to move and reminding his still-healing mind rather obscurely of a hedgehog balled up and waiting for the fox to figure out where best to strike a killing bite.


	2. Chapter 2

"Matthias. Dude. Snap out of it!"

The American student got only a small grunt in return. Almost no sleep the night before had left Matthias impossibly drained and everywhere he looked he could see only a slim figure with violet-tinted eyes. A stranger crafted from silk and storms that had slipped away from him like wind in his hands. Outside, the storm that had drenched him the evening before continued, albeit more gently - the rain pattered softly against the glass of the cafeteria window rather than hammering down with the wrath of a thousand gods. The cafeteria in the Pele Building was on the top floor and looked out over a concrete jungle of mist and smoke and pale shadows that stretched for miles in every direction; unless his soft-skinned hero was a university student like himself, he would likely never find him again. The city was too vast, too complex. Seeking him out would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

"Matthias!"

The Dane looked up with a half-irritated frown. "Bro, what the hell?"

His friend grinned widely. "You're still making doe eyes over that mystery kid, aren't ya?"

Had he told Alfred Jones and Gilbert Beilschmidt about his fateful encounter the moment he arrived at the lecture hall that morning? Of course he had. Eccentric as they may be, they were the only friends he had.

"The fairy tales are getting to your head," Gil butted in, "You've gone moony."

Matthias gave Gilbert a blank look. "I literally have no idea what that means."

"He means you're a sucker for love at first sight," Alfred interjected in between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. "Good God, dude, this kid stops you from grazing your knees and suddenly you're head-over-heels for him. And this ain't the first time something like this has happened."

"Enlighten me. When have I ever gotten a crush on someone that quickly?"

Alfred leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He had the smug, near-pretentious look of someone who already knew they had won their battle.

"For starters, there was that Dutch exchange student last year. What was his name? Abel? He bought you a coffee once when you didn't have enough cash on you and you practically stalked him until he went back to Holland."

Gilbert gave a burst of piggish laughter. "That was the creepiest thing you've ever done."

"And what about the Swedish lad?" Alfred continued, evidently enjoying this far too much. "Bernard or-"

"Berwald." Matthias was struggling not to glower at the American now.

"Yeah, yeah, him. You went on two dates before he broke it off with you. Dude had a boner for Tino, didn't he?"

It was impossible not to cast a brief glance across the cafeteria to where the couple in question were currently sat together at a two-seat table, sharing a huge mug of hot chocolate with far too much whipped cream piled on top of it. Abel had been a quick crush, but he had genuinely really liked Berwald, and it had stung when the Swede announced that he found Matthias' occasional bouts of hyperactivity to be incredibly annoying. Whereas Matthias was chipper and upbeat and quite often brimming with energy, Berwald was far quieter, preferring to enjoy silent company rather than chatting about their favourite books over a box of KFC. Tino was optimistic too, but far more tame than Matthias had once been, and much better suited to Berwald than he could ever aspire to be.

He snapped his gaze back to Al and Gil before either of his fellow Scandinavians noticed his staring. He had always enjoyed studying and reading and learning new things, but it was only after Berwald broke it off with him that he retreated into himself and became more placid and subdued. Recently he spent less time attending clubs and talking loudly about his favourite stories, and more time reading in the park atop the hill and in the library. Sure, he was still loud and upbeat around his close friends - even if they could be considered asses from time to time - but he had become duller. Quieter. Not quite the same as before.

"The point is," Gil broke in, "You're a sucker for fairy tale romance. You spend three seconds around a guy who's polite to you and you're trailing after him like a heartsick puppy. Face it - you're in _loooovve_ -"

"You can't say much about my love life," Matthias retorted suddenly, having found his ammunition as he laid eyes on a brunette girl stood ordering her food at the counter. "You lost the girl of your dreams to _Roderich Edelstein._ Who the hell is a bad enough boyfriend to lose a chick to that stuck-up rich kid?"

"He has a point," Alfred admitted. "You two are just as bad as each other."

"That was not my point," Matthias added quickly.

A loud crash drowned out whatever complaint Gilbert came out with next, and the three turned simultaneously in their chairs to see a too-familiar scene playing out. Some skinny first-year was stood at the back of the long queue up to the counter with a trio of much older students gathered around him. Matthias almost rolled his eyes. They were in university now, and the three guys pushing the poor kid around were older than him - how were they still so immature? They weren't in high school any more!

The crash had come from the shortest of the three smacking the kid's lunch tray onto the floor. It had turned quite a few heads in the room (Matthias noted Berwald fixing the trio with one of his monstrous glares) but nobody rose from their seat. Nobody went to intervene.

"Poor kid," Alfred mumbled through a mouthful of fries. "He's gonna get his ass handed to him on that tray if he doesn't back down."

"You realise we could go and do something about it, right?" Matthias muttered. The cafeteria had certainly grown quieter since the crash, but it remained still. There seemed to be some unspoken rule about not getting involved when these incidents occurred, which was, thankfully, not at all that frequently. Even so, it wasn't as if the three of them were unfit; if it came to physical confrontation, they could easily hold their own. And they wouldn't exactly be outnumbered. Three on three - a perfectly fair fight.

From across the room, he couldn't hear what was being said, but it wasn't long before the fist of the short guy shot out like a bullet from a gun and cracked the kid in the face.

And the shot had echoes in the room.

Some people got to their feet and started shouting and booing at the guy who'd lashed out. Matthias and Berwald shot to their feet in the same moment and briefly met each others' eyes before turning back to the rapidly escalating situation.

The poor first-year was the first person Matthias had seen with hair as pale as Gil's albino-white tufts. He dressed oddly, wearing an ugly Christmas jumper even though it was only October, and his eyes were-

Violet.

For a brief moment it was an evening of thunder and downpours again. He was slipping, flying forwards with the haze of rain stinging his face like flecks of ice, and then he was being pulled back again. There was a half-shaven head of hair and an inked arm, and eyes tinted with the slightest touch of violet. A stranger crafted from silk and storms.

 **And it was only then, when the figure turned and began walking down the steps away from him, that he could make out a partly shaven head and a black Christian cross seemingly tattooed onto his now-bare left arm.**

 **Before he could move, the figure was gone.**

This kid certainly wasn't him, but how many people could there be in the world with _violet_ eyes?

The cafeteria worker didn't so much as bat an eye at the blood dripping from the kid's nose, but soon Matthias found himself striding forwards; the only person in the room daring to move among the throng of noise. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see Berwald poised, a look of thunder on his face, and behind him there was no protest from Alfred or Gilbert.

He tapped the shoulder of the dude who'd thrown the punch and was not at all surprised at his bullish features when he turned around. For a fit guy in his very early twenties, this bloke was not looking well. His face was red and thick with disgust and disdain, and a dark glaze over his piggy eyes made him appear just a bit more intimidating than Matthias would have liked. Berwald's rage-glare was scary enough - this was approaching a new level.

But not quite. Not close enough to deter Matthias. He found his teeth were worrying his lower lip before he clenched his fists and spoke.

"Dude, _back off_. Aren't you too old for this petty crap? Mind your own business and leave the poor kid alone."

If the room was hushed before, it was silent now.

There were no words. Not even from the three older students now glaring down at him, and certainly not from the slightly trembling boy cowering behind them with blood streaming down over his lips.

Nothing but a movement too fast to see.

And this time, when he yelped in shock and pain and fell backwards, there was no gentle stranger to catch him before he collided with the hard floor.

For that brief moment of falling, time refused to move. The world stopped turning and the air became still and heavy around him. There was only himself and the sound of a wild storm that had long since been quelled into a light drizzle, and the ghost-touch of a young memory trying to grab hold of him and soften his fall. It was a moment after the impact that he registered an explosion of hot pain in his right cheek and agony blooming over his skull as it was thrown backwards with the rest of him and slammed into the ground.

He envisioned the stranger in his mind had pressed pause on the world, and the moment he hit the ground with nobody to ease his pain, the recording started again.

More people cried out as he hit the floor and there was a heavy drum of footsteps as someone - two people? Three? - finally moved to join him. There was a shadow over him as he scrambled to his feet, but before another blow rained down onto him, someone hurled the figure away. A flash of navy blue - most certainly Berwald. Another figure yanked him to his feet and suddenly Matthias was bundled in between Alfred and the first-year kid, the American hurrying them both away as Gilbert tore past in a whirlwind of fury. He sat them both down at their table by the window before tugging up the sleeves of his bomber jacket and hurling himself into the fray.

It was not lingering fear that clouded Matthias' mind this time, but a rush of euphoria and throbbing pain that he hadn't felt in months. He flashed a smile at the shaken kid next to him, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and wiped blood from a cut that had opened up on his cheek.

"Matthias Kohler," he said, black spots on the edge of his vision scattering and giving way to adrenaline-fueled clarity. "What's your name, kiddo?"

"Emil," the white-haired boy answered bluntly. "Emil Steilsson. Thanks for the help."

Matthias flashed him a thumbs up, and then turned to watch as his ex-boyfriend, his best mate and the red-eyed devil on his shoulder unleashed anarchy onto the senior students.


End file.
